


Until We Meet Again

by AZGirl



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4847711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All for one, one for all. The Musketeers motto was played out over and over on those cold, muddy fields drenched in blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until We Meet Again

**Author's Note:**

> Set post season two, though more than likely it will be AU.
> 
> *Tissue, Etc. Warning* (Please see the note at the end for spoilery details.)

**ooooooo**

_Oh my friends, my friends forgive me_  
_That I live and you are gone._  
_There's a grief that can't be spoken._  
_There's a pain goes on and on._  
  
_Phantom faces at the windows._  
_Phantom shadows on the floor._  
_Empty chairs at empty tables_  
_Where my friends will meet no more._  


_~~~~~~~ “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables,” Les Misérables, English-language libretto by Herbert Kretzmer.  
_

**ooooooo**

We were finally returning to the garrison, though we were easily half the strength we used to be. The war was some weeks from officially ending as the final details of the peace treaty were still being worked out, but the Musketeers were the first to be recalled back to Paris. It wouldn’t do for the King to be without his personal guard at this delicate time of transition from war to peace. 

Both sides took heavy losses even if the Musketeers regiment fared better than most. Too many four-man squads lost at least one of their number while other teams were completely wiped out. 

All for one, one for all. 

The Musketeers motto was played out over and over on those cold, muddy fields drenched in blood. One brother-in-arms was often seen or heard of sacrificing their life so that the others might live. Other times, a brother would go down and the others would sacrifice everything in an attempt to save them – even at the cost of their own lives. 

This is what happened to me. 

ooooooo 

During a skirmish with the Spanish, I was knocked off of my horse by a bullet to the upper chest. At the time, I thought I was lucky to not have been trampled by any of the other horses, but now I would consider myself blessed to not be the only one of my brothers left alive. 

I will forever love and hate them for what they did after I fell. 

Having heard my cry of pain, one after the other turns back to help and protect me. That is when the first of my brothers was killed. He was shot in the back at heart level and died instantly. At least, I hope it was instantly, because I heard a sickening crunch as his body struck the ground. That sound still haunts my nightmares, though the wail of despair from us that followed plagues not only my sleeping hours but my waking ones as well. 

Given the fierce fighting at the time, my other two brothers had no choice but to leave our fallen one behind after a quick check for any signs of life. We all knew that he would’ve wanted it that way, wouldn’t want lives to be risked over his corpse. However, I knew that the others would try to give his body a proper burial as soon as they could. 

I was going to miss my older brother, who had once been so full of life. He had always been so boisterous and quick to humor, and was now an empty husk on some soon-to-be forgotten battlefield. 

By the time my two remaining brothers reached me, I had managed to prop myself up by my elbow on my uninjured side. As they were dismounting, our sharpshooter who was covering our position was shot in the stomach. 

When he turned and we saw the wound, there was no denying that it was a fatal one. Barely any chance to grieve going from four to three and soon there would only be two of us. Regardless of the obvious pain and the blood flowing from his wound, my friend helped our leader to get me up off the ground and onto a horse. 

Our leader helped our sharpshooter back onto his horse before mounting up behind me. As we rode away, a bullet clipped my mentor’s left shoulder. It was barely a scratch but still bad enough that he bled a lot. We made it back to camp, just barely keeping our seats on the horses. 

We were taken directly to the infirmary tent. From then on, I have no memories of what happened over the following days. Between the blood loss and infection, I lost too much time to a sweltering, nightmarish void. 

When I finally regained my wits, I found out that another one of my friends was gone and buried. My eagle-eyed brother had died from his wounds the day after I was shot, and like my other friend, I never got to say goodbye to him. 

The next bit of news crushed my spirit. 

It was bad enough that I had already lost two brothers because they tried to save me, but now my best friend and mentor seemed determined to join them and leave me behind. That scratch on his arm had gotten infected and every time it seemed that he was finally recovering, another fever came upon him. The physicians had lost hope that he would ever recover. 

A couple of days later, I was finally allowed out of my bed and taken to see my ailing brother. The hope was that the knowledge that I was recovering, along with my presence, might be the impetus needed for him to overcome his persistent fevers. At first, it appeared to work, but then only a day later another fever took him over. I couldn’t help but wonder if he wasn’t torn between joining our friends and staying behind for me. 

After all the tragedy he’d had to endure throughout his life, I couldn’t begrudge him wanting to depart this life. With tears in my eyes, I told him that he should go, that our friends were waiting for him. I told him how much I would miss him, and asked him to tell our friends goodbye for me. 

In a whispered, barely-there voice, he managed to apologize for leaving me alone again and told me he loved me. With that admission, something he had never before said aloud but had always managed show to me in countless other ways, there was no way I would withhold my forgiveness. 

I thanked him for all he had taught me, for being the best brother I never knew I needed until I met him. Lastly, though my throat was tight with grief, I thanked him for his sacrifice. He shook his head slightly as if the idea that I needed to thank him was unnecessary. My friend then tried to reach for my hand. As I grasped it, he mouthed the words “brothers always” and exhaled, breathing his last. 

My closest brothers and family were gone, and yet I was still living. Apparently, God was not done with me yet. 

ooooooo 

The next day a formal cease fire was announced. 

The war was over. 

ooooooo 

The more grievously wounded but able to travel are the first to be recalled back to Paris, and I ended up slowly traveling back to the city in the back of a wagon as the wound in my chest healed. 

My guilt is difficult to live with, because if I had not been shot, then perhaps my brothers might still be alive. 

“All for one” became the epitaph on grave markers that would never be erected. My brothers were separated from me not only by death but by the length of France as they rested in graves so far away. Somehow, I kept going on without them. 

My wound may slowly be getting better, but the pain associated with it goes on and on. I haven’t felt so alone since the first day I rode into Paris. What am I going to do without my brothers by my side? 

I don’t really understand why my friends had to die, but as a soldier I did my duty and fought for my beloved country. My King and my Country are safe, but so many of my brothers-in-arms are not. 

ooooooo 

When the wagon stops in the courtyard just inside the garrison’s gate, I was helped down by some of the newer recruits. God, they looked so young to my war-weary eyes! They tried to steer me towards the infirmary, but I managed to escape their well-meaning clutches by going into the mess hall. 

In all the months that I had been gone, the mess hall itself seemed to not have changed much at all, but what had changed was me. I had survived the war, and the only men I’d considered family of the heart were gone. 

Across the room, at the table that we used to regularly sit at, there were four empty chairs, three of which would never again be filled by my friends. I looked out over the sea of empty tables and all I could think about was how many of my friends were dead and gone for a cause that, even after all this time, I still did not completely understand. 

Suddenly, I couldn’t bear the thought of all the empty chairs. As I rushed out, I knew I would never sit at “our” table ever again. 

ooooooo 

Stepping out in to the late afternoon sunshine, the blue sky and warm temperature feels like a betrayal to my present state of mind. I ended up at the stairs leading up to the Captain’s office, ignoring the stitch of pain as I sat down. I didn’t think the Captain would mind my sitting there as it would likely be a while until he returned to Paris from the front. 

I slumped against the banister, suddenly so very tired. What was I going to do now? How was I going to on without my brothers? How could I make their sacrifice have meaning, make it worthwhile? 

I don’t know how long I had been sitting there before I heard someone clearing their throat. 

When I looked up, one of the men who had helped to take care me when I was injured asked, “How is your wound doing today?” 

“It’s fine, Aramis. Thank you.” 

“Good.”—Aramis leaned against the banister opposite of mine—“Georges, I am very sorry about your friends. I…I know what it is like to be—” 

“How is Porthos?” I ask cutting him off, not wanting to hear anymore. 

I had heard about Aramis and Savoy, how he was now the only survivor from that massacre. I assume that he wanted to make some point in order to console me or to give some advice, but I couldn’t let him say the words. I am alive and they are gone. There is nothing else I need or want to know. 

Aramis turned his head towards the gate and smiled slightly as he answered my question. 

“Irritated, frustrated. He should be here tomorrow with the second caravan of injured.” 

“He broke his leg, right?” I ask, finding that talking about someone else was a good, momentary distraction. 

“Yeah,” Aramis begins and then chuckles. “He despises the fact that he’s going to be inactive for so long. I think that if it had been d’Artagnan who had had his horse shot out from under him, then the outcome would have been more favorable”—He shakes his head and smiles—“The lad was practically born in the saddle.” 

Aramis sobers and he looks as if was going to make another attempt to console me – as if that could ever happen. 

Again I speak up before he can. “When is the Captain due back?” 

“Athos will be the last one to return”—He shrugs—“Perhaps second to last. Ever since that battle when the Captain was wounded, d’Artagnan has barely let Athos out of his sight. So I suspect that my favorite Gascon will be the very last to return to the garrison unless he’s ordered ahead.”—Aramis runs a hand through his hair—“Georges…I know what you’re trying to do.” 

I feel my shoulder muscles tense as the other man speaks. “If you know, then you should also understand that I can’t…I’m not… Just… Please, don’t.” 

Aramis straightens and places a hand on my shoulder, gripping it a moment before patting it and letting go. At that moment, I could feel a tear that I hadn’t realized had formed roll down my cheek and merge with my beard, causing me to lower my head to hide the emotions I am certain are plainly written all over my face.

“I will be helping out in the infirmary for a while yet if you ever want to talk.” 

I nod my head, my throat now too tight to speak. It’s a near thing, but I manage to keep more tears from falling down my face. I have a feeling that once I start, I will never be able to stop. I can’t give in to my grief like that. I’m just not sure that I have the strength to hold it back for much longer. 

They were— _still are_ —my brothers, my family. Until they came into my life, I had been so very alone and now that they are gone, I am alone once more. Only this time it is worse. They gave their lives for mine and they are together now in a much better place. I am stuck alone in my own hell on earth. 

My gaze wanders back towards the mess. Those empty chairs are symbolic of not only how alone I feel, but of all the good times we had together and all the times we spoke of our futures. And now those futures will never come to pass. 

How am I ever going to be able to stand going in the mess again? If it is empty, I will keep expecting my friends to come in at any moment. If the place was full, then I will probably expect them to be waiting for me. However, they will never be there again. From now on only the phantom presence of my friends, still alive in my memories, would reside in that place. 

It suddenly occurs to me that, with the multiple warfronts, that I have no idea how many of the men that I had been friendly with are still alive. Was I ready to hear the answer? I know that many will be gone, but I think I would rather not know yet because I can barely breathe with the knowledge that my brothers are no more. 

I’m thankful that Aramis, Porthos, and d’Artagnan are alive along with their friend and our Captain, Athos. Before the Captain’s promotion, they were a foursome just like my brothers and I were. As close as family, just like my brothers are to me. 

Since the war had begun, their foursome was more often reduced to a three-man squad with Captain Athos accompanying them only when duty and orders from above permitted. 

I’d heard about the incident at the border. The Captain’s head was skimmed by a bullet and he was thrown from his horse. D’Artagnan had been with Athos at the time, while Aramis and Porthos were on the other end of the line. D’Artagnan was said to have done an admirable job rallying the soldiers even as he had protected Athos from further harm until his other two brothers could come to their aid. Somehow they had had made it back to camp in one piece – more or less – when the battle was done. 

Captain Athos did not wake for just over two days. For a while, it was touch and go, with the physicians speculating that he might never again wake up. D’Artagnan had been right next to the Captain when it had happened – the two having a deep bond of friendship like me and my mentor have…had. It is understandable that d’Artagnan would have difficulties letting Athos out of his sight after such an incident. I’m sure that there has been more than one argument over that in the past few months. Athos doesn’t strike me as a man who could tolerate such behavior for very long. 

ooooooo 

I am brought out of my reverie by the bell signaling the evening meal. 

Just the thought of going into the mess makes me sick to my stomach. I can’t bear the thought of seeing the formerly empty chairs filled, displacing the phantoms of my brothers who had once sat upon them. I can’t go back in there, not now, not this first night back – perhaps never again. 

As the first group of men begins entering the mess, I carefully stand and move towards my room. I know I need to eat, especially since I’m still recovering from my wounds, but I fear that any attempt would not end well. All foods, even ones that were once my favorites, have lost all flavor, tasting like ashes on my tongue. Perhaps I will try to eat something on the morrow. 

Mechanically, I disrobe and get into bed with a grunt of pain as the act jars my still-healing body. At first, too many thoughts are crowding my mind keeping me from sleeping, but eventually my exhaustion gives me the added push I needed. 

ooooooo 

The next thing I know, I am entering the mess hall. 

My friends and brothers are sitting at “our” table in the corner and I head over to them without hesitation, eager to join them. We eat, we laugh, and we drink. It is a night like so many others, and I am content to be in the presence of those who have come to mean as much to me as my long-gone blood family. 

The rumors of war with Spain become reality and we have one last dinner together the night before we were to ride out towards the border. That night, my best friend and mentor, our leader and ever the solemn one, brought up the all-too-real possibility that one or more of us might not return home. 

A hush settled over our small group, as each of us looked like they were considering boasting that that would not happen to us, but we couldn’t. Despite our best efforts and intentions, the odds of us all surviving were very much not in our favor. In a war, there were always casualties; they could not be avoided. 

That night instead of denying a possible future, we instead promised each other that, should the worst happen, the survivors would not give up, would not feel guilty, and most importantly, that we would live. We promised to live our lives to the fullest even if that life meant that we no longer served as Musketeers. 

After we made that solemn vow, the four of us did not speak for the longest time. It was as if the gravity of the situation had rendered us incapable of speech. Then someone on the other side of the room laughed and the spell was broken. 

From then on, we only spoke of ordinary things. As we left the mess hall, we passed by the table Aramis, Porthos, Athos, and d’Artagnan usually occupied. They were making an effort to seem in good spirits, laughing at something or other. However, their expressions betrayed volumes, all of which said that they’d had a conversation very much like the one I’d so recently had with my brothers. 

It wasn’t difficult to imagine that all the other various Musketeers squads were having conversations along the same vein as they also shared one last meal together before going off to war. 

Later on, before I eventually fell asleep, I prayed for my brothers-in-arms as well as my brothers by choice. I asked God to help me remain steadfast in accordance to my promise so that I could honor the memories of those that might fall in the way that I lived once I returned home. 

ooooooo 

When I woke up, it was morning. 

At first I had thought it was all those months ago, the day we left for war, but when I sat up – or tried to – I was reminded of the harsh reality when my injury caused me to groan in pain. 

It was not the day I left for war, but the day after I had returned from it alone. 

The realization threatened to crush my soul, but then I remembered my dream and that last meal in the mess with my brothers the night before we left. 

We had promised each other to not let death destroy us, but instead to accept it as part of life. 

I won’t say that the weight of all that had happened was completely gone from my shoulders, but it was not quite so difficult to bear. I could breathe a fraction better than the day before and it had nothing to do with another day of healing for my physical wounds. Perhaps one day I might even breathe completely freely again. 

That day was God only knew how far away, but I was now determined that that day would come. 

Today I will concentrate on living this day to the fullest. Today I will honor my promise and hopefully one day I can think on my brothers with fondness and not regret or sorrow. I am confident that someday it will happen, but that day is not today. 

Those empty chairs will always be a reminder of how much I will miss my friends and brothers, but they will also be a reminder of all the good times we had together. I don’t think I will ever stop missing my family. 

They may be gone for now, but I think that they will wait for me – perhaps a little impatiently – until we meet again. 

ooooooo 

_“[I]f the dead can come back to this earth, and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you in the garish day, and the darkest night amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours always… [D]o not mourn me dear; think I am gone, and wait for me, for we shall meet again.”_

_~~~~~~~ Sullivan Ballou (a portion of the last letter written to his wife Sarah on 14 July1861, just days before he died at the First Battle of Bull Run/Manassas.)_

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Author's Note:**

> Story is cross-posted on fanfiction.net.
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
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> Tissue, Etc. Warning: (Spoilers!) Up to a certain point, reading this story might make you think that the Inseparables have died, but they are *not* dead. It is OC characters who have been killed in the war with Spain, *not* Athos, Aramis, Porthos, or d’Artagnan.


End file.
